them to a table by the far wall in one of the more concealed alcoves. With her biggest smile, Irene said, “No thanks. We would like to sit at one of the empty window tables.”
He opened his mouth to respond but when their eyes met he closed it again with a snap. Without a word, he led them toward one of the window tables. In order not to admit complete defeat, he seated them at a table by the side of the window rather than in the middle. Irene decided to let it go.
The business lunch consisted of grilled cod cooked in a wok, with white wine sauce. All three chose the same dish, not least because of the price. For an additional one hundred and thirty SEK, they could have gotten an appetizer and dessert as well, but none of them was that hungry. The images from the video were all too fresh in their minds.
While they were waiting for food, they each ordered a large beer. Freshbaked bread appeared. Its smell was seductive, and it was still warm enough for the butter to melt when it was spread.
So far, the day had been overwhelming. It was important to process all the new information. Peter and Hannu avoided talking about what they had seen and gone through during the last few hours. And Irene started to relax. The tension in her neck and shoulders began to ease, due to a combination of the beer and Glady’s comfortable atmosphere. The restaurant, located in an old potato shop on the bottom floor of one of the larger stone buildings on Avenyn, was spacious but the architect had preserved small storage rooms and narrow passages, which added intimacy to the restaurant. The bare brick walls had been washed, and lighting points and candles placed in the holes in damaged stones. The chairs, in a late-eighteenth-century Gustavian style, were painted in sober light gray and covered in a blue-and-white-striped cotton fabric. White linen tablecloths and napkins completed the fresh look. Airy striped cotton curtains framed the only window, where the police officers were sitting. Irene could watch the passersby through the gauzy fabric without being seen herself. An ideal lookout spot, she thought. She realized a second later how much her work had affected her psychologically. She had to make an effort to concentrate on the conversation and the good food.
THEY WATCHED the videos with Peter one more time. Jonny joined the group before they started.
It was easier this time, since they knew what was coming. When the last painful image had faded from the screen, Irene said, “Why didn’t Emil include the entire dismemberment process? It’s easy to copy a videotape so that both Emil and his accomplice could have had one.”
They pondered the question for a while. Finally, Hannu said, “He didn’t want the other part. That’s not what turned him on.”
Peter nodded.
“Blokk said something similar. He said that the dismemberments with the saw reduced Emil’s anxiety and gave him pleasure.”
“The other one probably wanted the other pictures of the abuse of the body. Opening the abdomen and removing the internal organs and all that. Incidentally, I wonder if the murder itself is on tape?” Irene asked.
“It’s very possible. But not certain. The primary thing wasn’t to kill a person but what they did later with the body,” Peter answered.
It sounded very much like what Yvonne Stridner had said at the beginning of the investigation.
“So the other guy is supposed to be the doctor, if I’ve understood this correctly?” Jonny jumped in.
“Yes. We think so since Marcus spoke . . .” Irene started.
“What if he’s just as fake as the policeman?” Jonny said triumphantly.
“Fake?”
“Emil wasn’t a police officer. Just dressed up like one. What if the doctor isn’t really a doctor, but is just pretending. Goes around in a white coat and stethoscope and all that.”
Irene stared at Jonny, amazed. It was the most intelligent thing he had come up with during the entire investigation. And he could very well be right. Irene nodded and said, “That’s very possible. I’ve been thinking about the picture that was stolen at Tom’s. The man in the photo, maybe he’s the doctor. I’ve been trying to come up with a way of getting in touch with the photographer who took the pictures. He should know who the man in the backlit picture is.”
“Have you asked Tanaka?” Peter wondered.
“Yes. Tom doesn’t know who he is. It’s a high-quality picture—”